“I didn’t know how else to explain it. It was that old rescue truck they keep at the highway equipment station on the road to Lhadrung town for bad highway accidents. Someone called them and said a Tibetan herder had been hit on the highway and seemed to be close to death. When the rescue truck got there a herd of sheep surrounded it, so the driver and attendant got out and pushed through to the man who had been struck. But he had regained consciousness, said he was fine, and couldn’t leave his herd. So they treated a few scratches, gave him some medicine and left. Except later they called to say the medical pack was gone from the back of the truck.”

“Medical pack?”

“Like a big metal suitcase, they said, full of medical equipment and medicines. Except then the driver said the attendant was a damned fool and may have forgotten to put it in the truck. They have several and couldn’t find any inventory list to confirm one was missing.”

Shan read the report again then ripped it in half and dropped it in the trash can. A phone message had been underneath it, from Amah Jiejie. Lieutenant Huan, she reported, had been in Lhasa the night of the attack on Jampa. Shan wearily braced his head in his hands, elbows on his desk, feeling his exhaustion. He watched Choden, willing him to sign out and go home so he might nap in a cell. But suddenly his deputy was at the window, studying two figures in hooded sweatshirts who were now sitting on a bench in the square, watching a half dozen sheep who were eating one of the new flowering shrubs Mrs. Lu had planted. Shan was about to tell Choden to go disperse the sheep when his deputy pointed to a white utility vehicle parked on the square. “Lhasa plates. Everyone gets lost in Yangkar these days.”

Shan studied the two figures a moment. “Go home,” he ordered, then waited while his deputy disappeared down the street before venturing out on the square.

“I love this town!” Cato Pike exclaimed as Shan sat beside him. “I am a connoisseur of forgotten places, and this one looks like it has been forgotten in so many centuries it practically doesn’t exist!”

“Sometimes the only way to be free is to be forgotten,” Shan replied.

“In other words, Yangkar is a Chinese paradise. Hell, it’s not even on the road map. We had to stop and ask a herder.”

“The mapmakers are all from Beijing. They decided to call it Buzhou. There used to be a sign saying that, but a yak knocked it down.”

“And the constable chose not to put it up again. I imagine your Chinese residents didn’t much like that.”